


all the devils have left

by afterism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Cats, Crack Treated Seriously, Forced Proximity, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, House magic, Houses that want to kill you, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Post-Canon, Sarcastic Harry Potter, Self-deprecating Draco Malfoy, Shameless tropes, Trapped in the dark together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: There is a strange cat in his library, and Draco has the distinct impression it's blaming him for something.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic's existence owes a huge debt of gratitude to Connie Willis' _To Say Nothing of the Dog_ , even though I didn't manage to squeeze in any time travel.

There is a strange cat in his library.

It has, so far, tried to: pounce on his wand; steal his wand; chew his wand; sniff along the bottom shelf of books as though it can _read_ ; stare at the second row of books and make one terrible, adorable attempt at climbing the ladder before falling off the first rung; make one terrible, adorable attempt at jumping up to the second row that ended in a scrabble of limbs and deep scratches in the woodwork; and finally, spend an entire minute staring at its feet, extending and retracting its claws.

It's now prowling around the edge of the room and regularly glancing at Draco with its startlingly red eyes.

Draco has the distinct impression it's blaming him for something.

"I opened every door between here and the front lawn, you know," Draco says, pointlessly. "You are welcome to leave."

It looks at him again, and yowls. It's the same noise it's been making since he found it scratching furiously at the front door -- Draco had hidden in the shadows of the entrance hall while he cast a dozen spells at the door, frowning as he confirmed that whatever was making that ungodly noise wasn't human or magical. Eventually, desperately, he had opened the door with a cautious flick of his wand and watched with white knuckles as something pale and fluffy dropped into the entrance hall, and meowed.

It hasn't left him alone since. It looks at the door instead of his hand every time he points at the way out, and Draco has the unfounded but unwavering notion that this is somehow Not Right.

He's used to seeing the cats from the nearby muggle village stalk through the manor grounds, heads low and eyes bright and heedless of all the charms that are supposed to keep muggle things _out_. He has fond memories of watching over-confident cats meet a peacock for the first time. This cat, with its sleek white fur and unnatural eyes, is nothing like those.

"I'm not going to feed you," Draco promises. He has learnt the hard way about encouraging strays in fits of loneliness. "So you might as well stop staring at me like that," he says, and holds its unnerving gaze for a moment longer before frowning and looking back down at the desk, the padded leather hidden under a thick covering of old letters and older books. His endless-scrolling parchment of notes threatens to slip off the far edge, legible handwriting a long-furled memory as he flexes his hand and picks up the quill again.

He was in the middle of something, before the yowling beast interrupted. The manor has only been legally his for a few months -- his parents' tour of the continent being rather extended, tilting towards permanent -- but he has no intention of keeping it like a museum of misery. He has spent weeks making his way through old rooms and dusty corridors one step at a time (sending a house-elf ahead to confuse any release-trigger curses, of course), unweaving vicious or disintegrating spells and carefully moving any potentially-dark objects to the large study at the north of the manor.

True, there are certain corridors he has yet to tackle, but avoiding the room where Voldemort slept (... resided? schemed? hung upside down like a bat? Draco never dared find out) is just _sensible_ , even if it is over two years since anyone went near it. Aunt Bellatrix's room, close by, is also warded off -- he has, in idle moments, considered just setting up a containment charm and burning that whole side of the manor down.

The problem is, no one in the family has ever considered keeping a clear record of all the charms, curses and hex-work that have soaked into the brickwork over the centuries, which makes undoing them part research, part archaeology and part standing well back and hoping his shield charms hold up against whatever awfulness might be about to be unleashed.

"I've undone everything I've traced back to the mid-eighteen hundreds and there are still _hundreds_ of curses that might still be in place," Draco finds himself saying, as the cat looks over from studying its paws again. He considers it for a moment before shaking his head, and picks a yellowing sheet of copperplate handwriting. "And everytime I undo one thing I have to be ready for something new and awful to deal with, because some of those spells are woven on top of others, and some of them plaster over the faults of previous ones instead of just _removing the previous ones_ , and..." Draco trails off, dropping the letter back on the desk and leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking. He stares up at the panelled ceiling.

The library sits in the north wing of the manor and is always cold, even now in the middle of August. He has yet to determine if that's due to bad magic or poor architecture. The numbness in his fingers is starting to creep back in.

"Mreep," says the cat, and Draco snaps forward to look at it. After a moment, he opens the top drawer of the desk and retrieves his wand, swishing and flicking a cushion to flop on the floor in front of the cat, and casts a warming charm into the stuffing. A moment later, he does the same to his cloak.

"Don't tell anyone," Draco says, feeling ridiculous but warm, and turns back to his notes.

It's only a few minutes before he's talking out loud again. The weeks of silence must be getting to him.

"I don't know even know which ones are still in place!" Draco says, dropping the quill. Ink spots dot the parchment, already cramped with his discoveries and theories and crossings-out. "All I have are diary entries and letters and vague references to _protecting my dear sister by making her windows violently repel any intruders_ , or, _oh dear! Today I stumbled into another hilarious trap set by dear Gran-Gran. I do hope the maid wasn't too shocked_ ," Draco falsettos, before catching the way the cat is watching him and feeling oddly embarrassed. He clears his throat, and picks up another letter, the one with green ink and an idea that's been deeply bothering him.

"This one even mentions a horrible charm set by a particularly mad aunt in eighteen ninety eight which turned any uninvited guests into animals--"

"Mroore," says the cat, loudly.

Draco looks at it, and then says, "Oh, fuck."

\---

He tries everything, running through _revelio_ to _reparifarge_ to _finite incantatem_ to throwing a struggling cat through the open gates and leaping back when it turns around and charges at him, fluffy and furious.

It stops at his feet, as though it doesn't quite know what to do next. It looks up it him and yowls again.

"Sorry," Draco says, and then looks at the open gates, and spells them shut, and then casts a solid barrier five feet beyond them for good measure. At least that should stop anyone else having the same the problem.

The cat follows him back to library, stopping near the empty fireplace as Draco throws himself down onto the sofa. It blinks across at him with bright eyes, and Draco leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and takes a moment to consider whether it is just a plain, boring cat.

"Are you just a cat," Draco says, out loud, and then buries his face in his hands.

A few seconds later, something thwaps on each knee. Draco raises his head to find himself almost nose to nose with it, and flinches back an inch. It doesn't move.

"I'm assuming that's not normal behaviour," Draco says, mostly to himself.

The cat, standing upright with its front paws resting on Draco's legs, digs in its claws.

" _Gah_ ," Draco says, trying to wriggle backwards into unyielding leather, but the cat just clings on and meows again, loud and insistent. "Let _go_ ," Draco begs, and after a beat, the claws retract.

He stops wriggling, and stares at it. "Right," Draco says, levering upright without moving his legs, his hands squeaking on the cushions. They consider each other in silence for a long moment, as Draco mentally runs through every possible kind of communication spell -- and then sighs, and fishes his wand out of his cloak pocket, and says, " _Legilimens_."

The result is a discordant screech of animal noise and colours and _smells_ and an instant, pounding headache.

The cat looks unperturbed, still balanced upright and gazing at him.

"Okay," Draco breathes, eyes closed as he presses a hand to his forehead. "Inconclusive," he says, and squints his eyes open. "How about left paw for yes, right paw for no?"

The cat lifts up the paw on the right -- its left, Draco realises, and takes a deep, long breath instead of hiding his face again.

"Just to be clear," he starts, and has an odd out-of-body moment, watching himself set terms with a deceptively fluffy hellbeast, "this paw means yes," he says, tapping the one the cat just raised, "and this one means no."

 _Yes_ , the cat indicates.

"Oh, good," Draco says, flatly. "You're an auror, aren't you."

He had been making good progress yesterday, until he started unravelling that one particular spell around the gates which repelled muggles with great prejudice. The earth had shook. At the time, he was faintly surprised that he wasn't immediately surrounded by a dozen aurors, and then on blind faith had assumed that no one else had noticed.

Besides. Who else would visit unannounced?

It's not really a question, but the cat answers anyway.

_Yes._

"I didn't do this on purpose," Draco says, quickly, just to get it out there.

The cat blinks, shifting its stance. Draco considers it for a moment longer, then asks, "Any ideas?"

 _No_ , it admits, after a beat.

Well. At least that makes two of them.

\---

An hour later, and Draco is back at the desk and shuffling through another stack of letters from the late-1800s pile. The mad aunt didn't keep any diary that he can find, but she was the kind of entertainingly eccentric relation that inspired a lot of letters, usually begging another family member to host her for the season. As far as Draco can tell, she hated wizards and muggles alike, excessively loved cats, and had an animagus form that no one could ever quite bring themselves to write down.

Her latest victim stalks through the open library door, its back legs stiff and its eyes, if possible, even wider. Draco looks at it.

"Apologies for the peacocks," Draco lies, and turns back to letter in front of him. It's full of mindless drivel about hunting, but he has yet to figure out exactly _what_ they were hunting --

The cat skids across the papers in front of him, letters flying, and Draco recoils with a yelp. It slides to a halt where his left hand was a moment ago, its body twisted so it can look at him, and yowls.

Draco catches his breath, and narrows his eyes at it. "If that is your idea of helping," he starts, and then remembers who he is talking to, and stops.

His relationship with the Auror Department is... cordial. He's not hosting any of them for Sunday brunch, but neither have they stormed uninvited through the manor since the Malfoys started wholly co-operating. He answers their questions and mutually avoids eye contact with any Gryffindors. It works.

"Who are you?" Draco asks without thinking, and the cat lifts up one paw, then the other, then starts patting the desk with its claws out and short, sharp _mreews_ until Draco holds up a hand.

"Right, yes, got it," Draco says, and looks instead at the sweep of destruction across the antique leather as his mind starts ruffling through memories of the Auror Department. It's a young team, after... everything. Even if he's never spoken to half of them he could still summon a description and work through a list, starting with the obvious and working through to the desperately unwished-for --

Draco looks at the cat: at its neat, perfectly groomed white fur, laying flat and sleek along its back; its bright, ruby-red gaze.

Oddly enough, he has never considered what Harry Potter would look like as cat. He imagines it, his thoughts slipping easily along a well-worn path, and decides that this is the opposite of what he would expect. The exact opposite, in fact.

"Potter?" he asks, wincing already.

"Mire," says the cat, and lifts his left paw.

"Merlin's beard," says Draco.

"Mrowr," Potter agrees. 

\---

He doesn't flee; he just mentions being hungry and then apparates to the kitchen so Potter can't follow him.

The warmth hits like a thrown drink. The August sunshine streams through the large windows and bathes the entire kitchen in a golden glow -- Draco has always assumed some daft ancestor had a fancy for cooking, to make it so lovely.

He pulls off his cloak, and dumps it over the marble-topped table in the middle of the room. It's quiet and empty, the fireplace cold -- the house-elves that aren't recovering from minor explosions must be busy elsewhere. Draco opens his mouth to call for one, but suddenly the thought of another small, big-eyed thing staring up at him is too much to bear. His teeth click as he snaps his mouth shut.

It's fine, he can fetch things for himself. Hunger seems to rarely bother him these days, even though he often forgets to ask for food to be brought up to wherever he's working. His old elf Middy has taken to leaving sandwiches in the strangest places, on rafters and staircases and on top of the toilet, and Draco hasn't yet cared enough to find out why.

It can't be that hard to get himself a glass of water. Draco starts opening and closing cupboard doors at random, finding candles and rolling pins and strangely angled screws, as well as soup bowls and silver serving dishes and champagne flutes and an awful lot of other things that he wouldn't be able to get more than two gulps out of. He shuts another door, the handle slipping under his fingers so it's more like a slam, and Middy must have been rearranging again, it's fine, it's fine, he can just --

" _Accio_ glass," Draco says, fumbling at his cloak without quite managing to find his wand in all the folds, and is confident enough in himself that he's definitely not relieved when just a single glass comes flying out of the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen. He reaches for it, and then all he can see is how unsteady his hand is, pale and bright as the sunlight dazzles his eyes -- and then he just shudders as the glass hits the sink behind him, shattering on the ceramic.

Draco flattens his hands on the table top, and breathes. His hair, loose and unstyled, flops in front of his eyes.

It's not _fair_. Surely sodding _Potter_ could have worked out a way to reveal who he was sooner -- but no, obviously, this was the plan: sneak in and search the manor for whatever they didn't have _permission_ to come snooping around for. Potter has clearly been waiting for the chance to paw through all the papers on the library desk, no doubt assuming they're full of his plans to destroy the Ministry and bring back the Dark Lord in one fell swoop. There's probably a whole team of hit wizards hiding behind the hedge, waiting for Potter's signal...

 _Although_ , a little voice says.

Although.

Potter's idea of searching seems to involve staring at Draco and making pitiful whining noises for _hours_. And he could have made a better job of pretending to be a dumb animal when Draco started asking questions. And as much as he questions the intelligence of the Auror Department, surely they could have come up with a less bizarre-looking cat if the idea was to blend in.

Old habits, he thinks, and hears his own exhale, loud and ragged in the stillness. He digs out his wand and repairs the glass with a flick.

The panic in his chest isn't done, even as logic pulls the plug on the bathtub full of that familiar terror; a beat later and Draco thinks of everything he said out loud in the last few hours, and slides forward until his head hits cold marble. His arms bracket his face, every breath making his chin damp. He doesn't move.

Burning the manor down is always a possibility. He likes to keep that thought at the back of his mind, the safety net of a potential last resort; there's always a get-out clause, so he might as well try something else first.

"Mrrow," something says from the doorway, and for a heartbeat Draco has the brief, dizzying hope that another cat has wandered in through the many open doors.

He lifts his head. Catty Potter is sitting on the edge of tiles, staring at him.

"I was just thinking," Draco says, and straightens up, pushing his hair off his face with one sweep of his hand. All his blood seems to have shot up to his head, and he busies himself with looking anywhere but at Potter. 

"It's obvious what I have to do, as nothing directed at you seems to make any difference. I'd rather not start throwing around counter-curses when I don't know what the original spell was," Draco says, calling out from the blessedly cold pantry in the corner of the kitchen, staring blindly at a loaf of bread, "but in the circumstances, I suppose I can do things the Gryffindor way and keeping attacking the gates until something works."

"Mirre," Potter says, hopeful, as Draco emerges from the pantry with a jar of pickled beetroot in one hand and a small truckle of double gloucestershire in the other. They both look at his loot for a moment, before Draco sets them down on the table and picks up his cloak.

The large ivory clock on the kitchen wall proclaims the time as quarter to VI.

"We might as well start now," Draco says, and strides past Potter without looking at him. At least he can be the bigger man about this.

\---

He leaves his cloak in the hallway, shaking off his jacket before he reaches the front door, and he tucks his wand into his trouser pocket so he can roll up his sleeves as he walks out into the stifling air.

The hedges lining the path have been kept high and well-clipped, although Draco has never seen a gardener go anywhere near them -- that's probably another curse for another day. For the moment, the hedges mean the walk from the house to the gate is in sweet, blessed shade, and if Draco walks fast enough he can almost imagine a breeze.

The soft patter of Potter follows him until they are halfway down the avenue of gigantic yews, and the light tap of paws on gravel suddenly turns into a clatter of stones as Potter hurtles past him, charging for the tall, locked gates.

"Mworre!" Potter calls as he passes, as though that explains everything, and Draco is left watching a lightning bolt disguised as a cat shoot towards the gate and then stop so sharply that there really should be a crackle of thunder afterwards. Potter puts one paw between two bars, then the other, then carefully walks forward until he has no choice but to find out how cat hips fit through narrow gaps.

A few feet beyond the gate, Potter sits down, his tail curling around his paws, and sadly says, "Mire."

"We tried that, remember?" Draco says, from the other side of the gate.

"Mrorw," Potter disagrees, and -- well, okay, perhaps there is a difference between walking out and being thrown out, but Draco doubts the original spell-caster considered that distinction. It's almost a shame that the Malfoy family have always had a strict Portraits-Not-Ghosts policy on allowing ancestors to reside in the manor; it means very few of the ones most prone to causing trouble are available for questioning.

"Go find a peacock to bother," Draco says, and steps back with his wand at the ready.

Potter ignores him. He jumps back through the gate with determined ease and stalks past Draco without looking up.

Right. Counter-curses.

Luckily, the Malfoy family has had many reasons for wanting to undo, protect themselves from or otherwise repel curses -- it means the library is full of old books and handwritten treatises on the best way to identify and neutralise them. Draco has pieced together a quick and dirty barrage of tests for when he has no idea where to start, and perfected his shield charms, and found that he can have surprisingly good reflexes for when that test for exploding charms comes back positive.

Draco rolls his shoulders, lifts his chin, takes a breath -- and then has to admit that he can't think of the first bloody spell because there's an odd tension looped down his spine, like someone is standing too close. When Draco glances back Potter is a few feet away and sitting comfortably, staring at him.

It's been a long time since he's knowingly had Harry Potter's full attention. Draco swallows and turns sharply back around, but it's too late; that tight, squirmy feeling he used to get in his stomach is back with all the force of a conjured cannonball. It's the feeling that used to make him throw things at Potter across the room, and call him names, and insult his friends just so he would look at him.

It's the same feeling that would make him think about what would happen if he got Potter in a darkened room, and then made it _weird_.

It's the same feeling that made him very eager to learn Occlumency.

It is not, however, a feeling he expected to feel ever again, after... everything. He got over that infatuation and he survived, in that order, and thinking about _that_ just brings up a whole load of other things he's trying very hard to never think about again.

"Mroow?" Potter says, because Draco has been standing still and doing nothing for at least thirty seconds.

"This is part of the process," Draco says, opening his eyes and not looking back, and starts isolating spells.

\---

Draco traces it down to two bricks, one either side of the gate. It's a surprisingly neat curse, despite everything that he's read about this aunt. Apparently she was precise in her eccentricities.

The spell itself is still a mystery, for all that he knows of its shape and location, but it stayed as inert and calm as a well-fed wolfhound while he gently prodded it, which is a nice change. And it means he doesn't have to risk throwing counter-curses at it.

With short, careful flicks of his wand, Draco crumbles away the surrounding mortar and then jogs a few steps back, pointing his wand at the centre of the gates as he levitates both at once. They float down to the gravel, settling with barely a creak of stone on stone, and Draco takes another step back without looking and then yelps as something pushes past his ankle.

"Yrrow," Potter says, by Draco's feet. He looks at the bricks, and then turns his bright red eyes up to stare at Draco. "Mwor?"

"If this doesn't work, I'm dropping you off near the ministry and leaving the country," Draco says. If this doesn't work, no one will ever forgive him for turning the boy who lived twice into a _cat_.

He readies his wand, and then slowly and ever-so-carefully slides the bricks together, until there's barely an inch between them. Nothing happens. Which is good.

Draco licks his lips, and then says, "Maybe you should stand over there."

Potter looks him, then at his hand, and then at the other side of the pathway where Draco is pointing. He looks up again, and Draco has no idea how a cat face can look amused, but this one is managing it.

"Miire," Potter says, and trots off.

"Right," Draco mutters, and points his wand steady and forward again. There's no putting it off. The temperature is dropping down towards comfortable, the shadows creeping up the west-facing hedge, and now is not the time to consider if maybe keeping Harry Potter as a pet might be better than accidentally killing him.

" _Reducto_!" Draco shouts, and the two bricks explode into a firework of dust. A moment later, there's a quiet and definitely _human_ , "Oof."

Harry Potter is sitting on the gravel, lifting up one perfectly human hand to stare at it in wonder.

"Fingers are amazing," Potter says, and Draco's chest tightens with panic. Fuck, he's broken Harry Potter. "I am never taking fingers for granted ever again," he says, picking up a small stone to apparently just roll it between his fingertips, and Draco is still trying to figure out the difference between the right thing and the Malfoy thing to do in these circumstances when Potter drops the pebble and jumps up, dusting off his palms.

Draco tightens his grip on his wand, but Potter is seemingly focused on rummaging through the many folds of his cloak as a frown between his eyebrows deepens, and so Draco just... _stares_ at Harry Potter for the first time in years. The Auror robes suit him, is Draco's only clear thought, before that squirmy feeling takes over.

The problem is, Draco realises, his sense of attraction has always been a slow, sluggish thing, hard to shift once fixated on something; and he has been fixated on Harry Potter for a long, long time.

Potter looks -- like he's going to be sick, mostly. A moment later, he is.

It's several long, awkward moments before he straightens up and Draco can stop staring blindly at the gate in horrified silence.

Potter swallows, and opens his mouth, and Draco raises his wand and hits him with a spell that, Draco knows from painful experience, creates a mouthful of icy, minty bubbles. Potter makes several interesting noises before he turns around again and makes some more interesting noises.

He turns back. "Are you--?" Potter starts, before having to spit again. He surfaces. "Was that supposed to be helpful?"

"Of course," Draco says. "I'm nothing but helpful. I've destroyed an ancient and enduring part of my family's estate just to help you."

He's joking, obviously, but Potter is suddenly scratching the back of his head and pulling a face like his mouth is still full of minty-fresh pain, and Draco has the horrible impression he's about to be _thanked_.

"I'll be billing the ministry for the damage, of course," Draco says quickly. Potter snorts.

"And I was doing so well with managing my expenses," Potter says, before looking Draco straight in the eye and having the audacity to smile.

"Are you back to normal?" Draco asks, and licks his lips instead of taking the opportunity to point out everything that's wrong with him because they are both mature, twenty year old wizards, and playground insults are beneath them.

"I think so," Potter says, glancing down at himself. "I'll let you know if I suddenly find any balls of wool irresistible." He looks up again, and opens his arms wide. "Do I look alright?"

Then again. If Potter is just going to _ask_ to be insulted --

He gets off to a good start with, "You look _normal_ , if that's what you're asking, but I have several suggestions if you're aiming for alright," before Harry gives a huffed kind of laugh and glances away, his gaze landing on the gate.

Draco swallows. "I suppose you'll want to, um," Draco says, swinging open the gates and dismissing the barrier beyond them with one sweep of his wand.

"I do want to, um," Potter says, with a hitch of his lips. He takes one step towards the boundary, and stops.

"Do you think leaving turn me into something else?" Potter asks.

Draco looks at the gate, mentally rummages through his research, and then shrugs. "No idea," he admits.

"Great," Potter says, and then turns to look at Draco properly. "Er, thanks, Malfoy," he says, with that nod which makes it clear there will be no foolish shaking of hands, and sets off down the path.

Nothing happens when he passes through the gate.

Two steps later, he keels over, and Draco starts running.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥

"Your house hates me," Potter says, before his eyes are open.

"My house has no opinion of you," Draco says, his wand still pointing at Potter's chest, his hand not quite steady. He steps back and deliberately crosses his arms as Potter pulls a face and sits up, rubbing a hand through the back of his hair.

"It keeps trying to kill me," Potter points out.

"It was a mere stunning spell," Draco says, although that might not be true. "Maybe the house didn't like the way you walk."

Potter sighs, and gets to his feet with a bit less enthusiasm than before. He looks at the gates. "Did you move me?"

They're back inside the property line, a clear dozen yards from the bricks and metal that most definitely hate Draco. "Only a little," Draco says. "Just in case it helped."

"Right," Potter says, with an edge to his voice that Draco can't quite figure out, and sets about dusting himself off again.

Draco looks up at the sky, the clear blue darkening ever so slightly, and thinks this through. Apparition within the grounds is possible, but not across the boundary line; they're well-protected against anyone trying to sneak in or out. He has no idea if any of the fireplaces are still connected to the Floo Network -- even if one is, he hasn't the faintest idea where the Floo powder is kept these days. There might be a hedge somewhere with a bit of a gap in it, but he's not walking miles around the edge of the estate to find it.

"Maybe I should escort you out," Draco says, at the exact same moment that Potter says, "Maybe I should stay."

A hot, heavy weight lands in his stomach; his lungs somehow feel itchy.

"Really?" Draco says, neatly boxing up those feelings and pushing them far away. "I thought the ministry had rules about using public time or resources for personal gain. One of those _reforms_ your inescapable crowd are pushing through."

"There's nothing personal about it," Harry says, disappointingly unruffled. "I was sent here to find out what caused that earthquake yesterday and stop it from happening again. Obviously it was you, so dealing with this," Harry says, gesturing at the gates, "is my job. And clearly the house agrees."

That clears that up, then: Potter _has_ got a death wish.

Draco bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs dramatically. "If you insist," he says, and turns away. He is, secretly, glad. The house usually only passes onto the heir early if he gets married, so there's that extra complication where some of the spells might not even _recognise_ him as the rightful owner -- it would be unfortunate to find out it was one of those spells when he was on the other side of the gate.

Actually letting Potter _help_ is a curious idea. Maybe he can give the house-elves the week off from being the bait.

"You might as well come inside, then," Draco says, leading the way. "I've made sure most of the main rooms are safe for visitors."

"Thanks," Potter says, like it's nothing, and Draco wants to strangle him.

The early evening light is slanting across the front of the manor, making long shadows out of every quoin and frieze and turning every brick a brilliant orange. Potter falls into step beside him, gravel crunching under their feet.

"It's always reminded me of a small Hampton Court," Potter says, looking straight ahead, and Draco is looking at him to gauge if that's supposed to be an insult when Potter glances at him. "Do you know it?"

"Of course," Draco says, quickly. The Malfoys have never been eager to give up their connections to royalty. There's a portrait of one of the wives up in the manor gallery; she likes to do rude embroidery when she thinks no one's looking. " _You've_ been there?"

"On a school trip, once," Potter says, his expression unreadable. "I liked the maze."

"We have one of those," Draco finds himself saying. "If you want to have a go."

Potter is quiet for a moment. "Maybe another time," he says. "It's getting dark now, anyway."

"Are those the incredible observational skills which got you this job, Potter?" Draco says, but Potter just _laughs_ \-- which, Draco supposes, is what happens when your arch nemesis goes and gets himself a much bigger, scarier nemesis, and defeats him. Childish insults just don't have the same heat.

Which is unsettling. Draco doesn't know what to do with this Potter that treats his best lines like friendly teasing.

"It's more my natural ability to always find trouble, I think," Potter says, and glances behind him.

Draco swallows, and for lack of anything cutting to say, asks, "Any ideas?"

"One," Potter says, and catches Draco's eye, the humour gone from his mouth. "But I'd prefer to try your way first."

"I had no idea Gryffindors could be so smart," Draco says, and perhaps making Potter laugh isn't such a bad thing.

They hop up the broad stone steps, the front door still wide open, and Draco glances once in the direction of the drawing room before picking up his jacket and cloak and turning sharply towards the doors that eventually lead to the library.

"It's weird," Potter starts, ambling along beside him with his hands in his pockets. "When I was a cat," (he says, like that isn't the weird part) "everything in here smelt kind of--" he pauses, as Draco looks at him. "Dusty," Potter finishes.

"I'm sorry my manor isn't up to your standards, Potter."

"No, I meant -- empty, I guess. The only person I could smell was you."

"Lucky you," Draco says, looking straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Potter glance at him, and then, blessedly, let it go.

"The kitchen smelt good, though," Potter says, unsubtly.

Draco swallows his sigh, and says, "I suppose you'll want something to eat."

"That would be nice, yeah," Potter says, and grins charmingly when Draco looks at him. It lands warm and familiar in Draco's chest, like a flaming arrow to the kindling under a witch.

Draco stops, and calls, "Middy!"

An old, stooped house-elf appears with a crack, wisps of hair sprouting from every angle of her head. She's well-bred enough that she only stares at Potter for a fraction too long before turning to Draco.

"Dinner for two," Draco says.

"Yes, master," she croaks, and glances at Potter again. "In the dining room, master?"

For a brief instant, he imagines it: them together in the dining room, opposite ends of the long table, wine and candlelight, a memory of something slithering --

"No," says Draco firmly. "We'll be in the library."

Besides. That dining table is now a pile of ash on the back lawn.

She bows and _cracks_ away, and Draco starts off the library again. He doesn't realise Potter isn't following until he hears quick footsteps behind, Potter jogging to catch up.

"What?" Draco asks, when Potter draws level with him and slows to a confident amble again. Potter shrugs, and just smiles tight and quick when Draco glances at him.

The library doors stand open at the end of the corridor, a rogue breeze fluttering through the papers scattered on and around the desk, and Draco feels the cold creep under his cloak the moment he steps over the sill.

"It's still warm," Potter says, picking up the cushion off the floor.

"Obviously," Draco says, and looks at the empty fireplace. Its heat barely worries the desk even when it's roaring, but Potter is clutching the cushion to his chest and Draco wants to bury himself in his cloak, so it (and he) would look odd if he didn't jab his wand at it and set it crackling. The flames burst to life.

"How long have you been working on this?" Potter says, and Draco steps sharply away from the fire to find Potter standing behind the desk, the warming cushion tucked under his arm as he leafs through the scrolls and crumpled parchment with too much focus to be casual. 

"A while," Draco says, and strides over, snatching up his personal notes before Potter can peruse them. 

The corner of Potter's mouth quirks up. "Do you think owls can get in and out of here?"

"Of course," Draco says, frowning. No ancestor of his would ever be stupid enough to stop the _post_ being able to get through. 

"Great. Can I borrow an owl?"

"Why?" Draco asks, narrowing his eyes.

"I want something warm and fluffy under the other arm," Potter says, flat. 

Draco, despite himself, makes a noise that could be called laughter. Potter smiles, and then his mouth twists and he adds, "I might've told Ron to raise the alarm if I wasn't back by the end of the day."

"Ah," Draco says.

"It was a joke at the time," Potter says.

\---

"Show me those spells you were doing earlier," Potter says, sitting cross-legged by the fire.

"No," says Draco on reflex, and then runs with it. "They're a family secret."

Outside, the world has gone dark, and the library is coppery and soft in the firelight. Draco sits in one by the armchairs by the fire, another pile of letters from the late-1800s on his lap, while Potter is on the floor and using the other chair like a makeshift table. He's half turned and leaning against the front as he trawls through two old diaries that Draco has already been through and an old copy of _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ to figure out who on earth this Enguerrand person is and why they were so into Devil's Snare.

"I'm sure there's a law which says you have to tell me," Potter says, looking up, and Draco scoffs. 

Potter amends it to: "I could get Hermione to find the actual law which says you have to tell me. And then she would probably insist on learning them as well, so really you should just tell me."

Draco opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. "Fine. But only on the understanding that in the future I might ask for something in return," he says.

Potter parses that. "I'll owe you a favour, you mean?"

"You don't have to be crass about it," Draco says, rolling his eyes, before his treacherous thoughts skip to a burning room and his mouth full of smoke and his sweat-slippery hands tight around Potter's waist -- and no, no, none of that.

Potter starts to stand up, while Draco practices his Occlumency.

"Alright," Potter says, apparently oblivious to how many favours Draco owes _him_.

"Not _now_ ," Draco says, scowling. He's warm and comfortable and heading towards tired -- if Potter wasn't here, he thinks, and stops. If Potter wasn't here he would be huddled over the desk, cold and not nearly so well-fed. 

Middy brought in dinner an hour ago, piling plates on the table in front of the sofa, and on the desk, and on the chessboard and the little table that usually had a vase on it and on the mantel above the fireplace and, eventually, directly on Draco's lap. There were sandwiches and kedgeree and spiced pear crumble and a roast chicken within Draco's reach alone. Over on the desk there was chocolate cake and salmon puffs and more sandwiches and gratin dauphinois and something in a large red pot that bubbled thickly; the smell of it all was overwhelming, confusing and delicious.

(Potter had thanked her, and Middy had just stared at him before disapparating. Which, admittedly, was odd. If Draco hasn't had a mouthful of sugary shortcrust at the time he might have considered demanding at answer, but by the time he had swallowed the thought was gone.)

"Tomorrow, then," Potter says, settling back down, and Draco shrugs. 

"If you insist," he says, and looks pointedly back down to his letters.

Unfortunately, Potter now seems to think that conversation is acceptable. There's a rustle of paper, the shift of Potter's boot at the edge of Draco's vision, and then:

"Why did you start all this?" Potter pries. 

"I like to be busy," Draco says, not looking up.

"Huh," Potter says, and then there's silence - Draco glances up just as Potter looks away, flipping open a book to the first page that falls open. "I figured you just like making trouble for me," he says, looking down.

"Nothing I do is about you," Draco lies, turning his gaze towards the smouldering logs in the fireplace before Potter can continue this game of eye contact chicken.

"Right," Potter says, and snaps the book shut with a sigh. "So what was with the localised earthquake yesterday?"

 _A mistake_ rolls onto his tongue, and Draco swallows. "An unfortunate side-effect," he says. "Old spells don't take kindly to being reversed."

"Yeah, I remember you saying..." Potter says, and Draco looks back sharply, eyes narrowed. "Before, you know," Potter adds, waving one hand in the air. "When I was a cat."

"Of course," Draco says.

"But I didn't really get it, to be honest," he says with a shrug, every inch of him loose and guileless, but there's something about the way his gaze snaps back a little too quick. "How does it work?"

"It's shockingly complicated," Draco starts. "I imagine it would hardly be worth explaining," he says, but Potter lifts his chin and Draco -- well, Draco just can't stop himself. He explains; he sidetracks into magical theory, and his personal views; he catches himself waving his hands in the air trying to explain how everything piles precariously together, and stops. 

"Like Jenga," Potter says, nodding.

Draco stares at him. "Is that some kind of disease?"

"It's a muggle game. You make a tower of blocks, and... never mind. It's unstable, basically."

"Yes," Draco begrudgingly agrees. "That's why I'm being so... cautious," he says, the word thickening on his tongue. He hasn't been, not really. He's just known that no one would be around to see him fail.

"Well. Good," Potter says, shifting against the seat, drawing his legs in. He licks his lips, and asks, "Do you think it's possible to lift every spell from this house?"

"Merlin, no," Draco says, recoiling into his chair, eyes wide. "I wouldn't want to."

Potter raises both eyebrows, and asks, "Why not?"

For a moment, Draco can only gape. " _Why not?_ " he hisses, a fraction too high-pitched. "This house would fall apart!"

"But surely it's just..." Potter starts, waving a hand vaguely as he looks around. "Just bricks and mortar, right? You don't need magic to keep that together."

"It's not just bricks and--" Draco squeaks, before realising he's just repeating what Potter says in a higher voice, and swallows. "Everything in this house is bound by magic, _Potter_ ," he says, old inflections snapping around his name. "Every stone in the foundations was laid by wizards who knew more ancient rites of ownership than you could ever possibly understand. The bloody walls would probably disintergrate if I was stupid enough to go around _undoing every spell_."

"Alright," Potter says, easily, and then reaches into his robes, and pulls out a notebook. "Could you repeat the first part again? I didn't quite catch it."

"Fuck off," Draco says, and feels immensely better for it. 

\---

Unfortunately, Potter does not fuck off. He does stop talking, which is a treat, but there's a lightness around his mouth every time Draco glances over, like there's a laugh hiding behind his lips.

Draco burrows into his armchair, and ignores him in the same way he ignored him all through Hogwarts; unsuccessfully. At one point he taps three fingers on the curve of the leather, an idle beat below his thoughts as he watches the charcoal in the fireplace glow; Potter copies him. He sneers and accidentally creases the paper under his thumb; Potter raises an eyebrow. He gets up and is across the room before the thought to do so has even formed; Potter follows him.

The old letters crackle as Draco drops them on the desk. 

"Have you finished that already?" Draco snaps, jutting his chin towards the leather-bound diary in Potter's hand.

"No," Potter says, and places it on top of Draco's pile with a crunch of delicate paper. "But judging by the notes in the margins, I think you have."

 _Bugger_. "I thought you might spot something I missed," Draco lies.

"Right," Potter says, and Draco watches the way his gaze wanders away, scanning the bookshelves. "To be honest, I'm better with the tactical stuff than all this research. Do you have a map of the estate I could look at?"

"What on earth for?" Draco asks, narrowing his eyes. The Malfoy estate is _large_. They keep the acreage unspecified for a reason.

"It's not just the gate that's cursed, right?" Potter says, catching Draco's eye. "I assume the rest of the boundary line has some sort of spell on it -- I tried to find a map before I came here, but the Department of Land Registration is a nightmare."

"Ah, yes, Father mentioned them once," Draco says, feeling warmly smug. "They were always very accomodating to us."

"Yeah. It's amazing what bribery can get you," Potter says, flat. 

Draco's mouth twists, just a fraction. "You wouldn't understand what it takes to keep a house like this."

"Dark magic, I guess," says Potter, but his gaze falters in less than a second. He licks his lips. "Do you have a map, or not?"

"Not to hand," Draco says, and something in his chest stutters when Potter looks back up. "I'll see if I can dig one out."

"Thanks," Potter says, and blessedly, horribly, looks away. Draco's cheeks feel hot.

"Why is it so cold in here?" Potter asks, clearly not having the same problem. He's turned away so he can face the fireplace, arms loosely folded across his chest as he leans his thighs against the desk.

Draco shrugs, turning without thinking to mirror him; he aborts the move to cross his arms halfway through and settles for scratching his nose. "North wing. Bad air circulation. Part of the cellars run under here," Draco says, throwing his guesses out like answers. "I've considered doing something about that, but the initial spells alone --" he says, but then something makes him stop. 

He looks at Potter, the hard angles of his expression, and thinks, _cellars_.

Merlin, if he's supposed to apologise for that, where the fuck is he supposed to _start_?

Potter turns his head, catches him looking, and smiles sharp as _lumos_ through cracked glass. "God, would it really be so bad to let this house disintergrate?" he says, and maybe he pitched it as a joke, but it hits square between Draco's ribs. 

He feels, suddenly, flushed and light-headed and so tired that he might as well be a little drunk, the world tilting unreal. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, choking him.

"You couldn't possibly understand what it's like, having this house," Draco manages, holding Potter's gaze through sheer unfocused anger. He expects something sarcastic, but Potter just looks at him with those bright eyes burning and somehow he keeps talking.

"You don't know what happened here. I'm sure you think you do. I'm sure you think what you saw and what you heard were the worst things but they weren't. I saw -- I did --" Draco falters, swallows, looks away as he skips ahead:

"If I don't fix this house, I'm going to be the Malfoy that ends my family's thousand-year hold on this land. And -- and if you don't understand what that means, why I have to try despite everything that's happened here --" he stumbles and stops. His fingers are clutching the edge of the desk, the angle digging tight into his palms.

Potter shifts, his arms dropping down so his hand is next to Draco's, almost touching. "I get it," he says, looking ahead. "There are places I would do anything to keep just as they always were," he says, and Draco clenches his teeth because _no, that's not it,_ but then Potter adds, "The echoes people leave behind -- they're not always a good thing."

"They rarely are, in my experience," Draco says, and when Potter glances at him he has the unpleasant sensation that he's said too much.

They are very close.

"So, um," Potter starts.

"Eloquent as ever," Draco says, grasping desperately for familiar ground.

Potter smiles, lopsided and devastating. "Is it alright if I crash on the sofa, or is there a spare bed somewhere in this house?"

Draco feels, for a brief and stupid moment, affronted at the very idea that he would make anyone sleep on the sofa. He gets over it. 

"I'm sure Middy has already made one up for you," Draco says, and is only mildly surprised to find he was telling the truth once he's summoned her. 

He goes to bed, alone.


End file.
